


Your Personal Sommelier

by Kerink



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 21:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20514080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerink/pseuds/Kerink
Summary: Crowley likes dropping hints that they've known each other in the VERY biblical sense.





	Your Personal Sommelier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HipHopAnonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipHopAnonymous/gifts).

It would have been correct of him to think that the wine swirling round his glass, leaving long trailing legs that stained for a moment before vanishing, reminded him of the blood of the innocent slowly seeping into the ground beneath his foot. That would have been the properly demonic thing to think. But as it stood Crowley was hardly a proper demon and thus the wine looked only like the setting sun, the English flag, the covers of rare books in climate-controlled housing. The first time he’d ever tasted this particular variety had been just after he’d saved his angel and received a commendation from Hell for bombing a church. His own private celebration with a bottle his vintner had proudly presented to him. Only recently begun being export. Perfectly hush-hush for only those most well connected, for those with cash to burn, for those capable of circumventing the mandatory rations. Thankfully Crowley was all three of those things.

“’s tropical,” he drawled, wine slowly settling again, the scent caught in the barrel of the glass and funneled straight to his nose, “but not tart. It’s sweet.” He was keenly aware of his angel plopped beside him, staring at him with adoring eyes and a soft, lazy smile. His own glass untouched, swirling gently to get the air in. Waiting for Crowley to continue to school him, teach him exactly what he was meant to smell and see and taste. 

Aziraphale may have been the foody, but Crowley knew his liquors backwards and forwards. 

Crowley peered at him over the tops of his glasses. “That’s how you know it’s a Beaujolais Nouveau.” Aziraphale lifted his glass and gave a few soft, quick little sniffles and Crowley had to return to playing like the angel’s rapt attention wasn’t enough to sustain him for the next millennia. 

Lifting the glass to his lips, Crowley slurped his first taste, noisily to get the flavor in his nose, rolling his tongue, rubbing his hard palate, afterwards. “Fruit, berries, the like like that.” He took another sip, letting himself fully taste it, letting it rest on his tongue, keeping his mouth shut, letting it linger. “Strawberries,” he could feel Aziraphale thrumming with delight, “raspberries,” it was no coincidence the desert Crowley had ordered, quick as a whip before his angel could daydream too thoroughly on something warm and chocolate. 

He’d wanted the pairing to be absolutely perfect. A delightful cheesecake with summer berries. Something to compliment this wine that meant so much to him, was attached to the memory of Aziraphale’s bright and blushing face, his soft voice, the gentle caress of his hand as Crowley handed him his darling books of prophecy. 

It was only proper that Crowley have this bottle again, on the eve of their finalizing their purchase of a cottage in the Downs. Perfectly suited for the two of them and thousands of books and dozens of terribly abused houseplants. 

“And just the slightest hint,” he said, voice lowering, as if Crowley was unsure, rolling and smacking his tongue again, Aziraphale on the edge of his seat, waiting with bated breath for Crowley to conclude his lecture and permit him to tuck in. 

“Just the slightest of hints,” he could feel Aziraphale’s question, feel the list of his suggestions ever growing longer and longer in his mind, lists of fruits and flowers, of common wine flavors and scents. 

Crowley turned once more to the angel, smirking all fangs. 

“Of Angel cunt.” 

Crowley sipped loudly at his wine again in an effort to drown out Aziraphale’s indignant, flabbergasted scolding.


End file.
